


Tar

by charcoalmink



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Motorcycles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalmink/pseuds/charcoalmink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the smell of grease and concrete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tar

“Lick it.”

Jason scoffed, expression incredulous. “What?”

Bruce was patient. “Lick it.” It was a command, but it didn’t sound _commanding_. It was the tone of voice he used when he knew he wasn’t going to be defied. A self-assured tone. An arrogant tone. Jason knew this; and yet, he still obeyed.

Jason moved slowly onto his knees, eyes fixed on Bruce’s. The man was still in his suit, for Christ’s sake. Immaculate and imposing, Bruce cut an impressive silhouette against the fluorescent light of the garage.

Hands lifting, Jason curved them along the motorcycle’s foot pedal and frame. He broke the tenuous gaze between Bruce and himself to face forward and lick a slow stripe along the seat. He could feel each dip and raised bump of the stitches against the soft palate of his tongue.

There was a tense moment of uncertainty when Jason paused, the taste of leather heavy on his tongue. He was tempted to turn and look at Bruce. (“Well?”)

There was a soft sound, and he felt the warmth of Bruce’s hand over the back of his neck. Jason shivered. He imagined he could feel every groove of each callous marking the man’s fingers and palm. Short, blunt nails tugged at the hairs at his nape. They slid up, scratching at his scalp, sending wisps of pleasure slithering down his spine. Jason leaned into it, reveled in it.

Bruce’s gaze remained low, fixed on Jason.

Extending his thumb, he traced the shell of Jason’s ear. The smooth cartilage felt cool against his skin, but warmed quickly under his touch.

“Head down,” He said clearly, voice booming in the silence of the room. Bruce slid his hand back to the crown, increasing the pressure on Jason’s head, palm firm and steady.

Jason complied, but not without a measure of defiance. He resisted until he could feel the bite of Bruce’s nails, and the strength behind the arm.

Jason lowered his head, turning so his cheek pressed into the cushion. The leather was sticky from his saliva, making his skin feel tacky and damp. He exhaled slowly, incrementally, watching his breath fan out and cloud the surface. His fingers remained tight on the bike’s metal frame.

Behind him, he heard Bruce shift, and felt the momentary loss of the man’s touch. When it returned, Jason felt the weight and heat of it against his jaw. His heartbeat thundered, and he fought the urge to squirm as familiar fingers curved over the tendons of this throat. A thumb fit into the hollow behind his ear, stroking the flesh.

“Don’t move.” And suddenly, Bruce was that much closer, chest pressed flush against his back, _pushing_ him into the immovable vehicle.

A hand slid down his arm, a barely-there pressure that had Jason wanting more, wanting something _else_. He began to lift his head, straining to look at the man, when the fingers around his throat suddenly gripped him. Not hard enough to hurt, but tightly enough to serve as a warning. It quickened his calmed pulse, making the anticipation that had ebbed away earlier return.

“ _Don’t_ move.” That was a deeper voice, a darker tone. It held a shade of the Bat in it. Hearing it sparked an immediate urge to obey, to please, like some kind of Pavlovian dog. But simultaneously, he had a knee-jerk reaction to rebel, to defy the command.

Jason fought with both responses, jerking within Bruce’s grasp. While he wasn’t necessarily struggling, neither was Bruce actively restraining him. But there was a moment of tension when both men sought to find a balance. Bruce was trying to find a bridge between Robin-- the good soldier-- and the reckless warrior he’d become. Jason refused to acknowledge any part of himself that still retained that obedience.

Bruce eventually relaxed his grip, though Jason’s shoulders remained tense. Cautiously, the redhead’s neck bowed, touching the leather once more. Jason shifted back, abruptly pushing against the older man’s weight, an implication that he wasn’t ready to back down completely. Not yet.

Bruce’s fingers slid down Jason’s throat, gliding over his Adam’s apple, his pulse. They moved slowly, almost gingerly, as if taming a wild beast. Jason calmed, going still, allowing the other’s touch.

Another, more firming grip encircled Jason’s wrist, prying his fingers from the motorcycle. The redhead allowed it, letting the other direct his movements.

Dropping the hand, Bruce pressed Jason’s own palm between his legs, manipulating the redhead’s fingers so they curved forward, cupping himself. Jason breathed out sharply from his nose, back rigid against Bruce’s chest,

“Take this off.” Bruce’s voice was sharp and startling in the silence that had settled. Fingers plucked at the fly of his jeans.

Jerkily, Jason dropped his other hand and reached for the button. He tugged and pulled at the zipper, the ragged sound of it deafening in his ears. Bruce seemed aware of it as well, his fingers tightening briefly around Jason’s throat. Reflexively, the redhead swallowed, if only to feel the snug pressure at his larynx grow tighter. He felt the man’s breathing deepen, as every inhale and exhale had Bruce’s torso pushing against his back. It was strangely intimate, following the rhythm of the other’s breathing in tandem with his own.

Hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband, Jason lifted himself on his knees to slide his jeans and boxers down. Once they reached mid-thigh, Bruce stopped him with a hand to his wrist.

Jason froze, fully aware of how awkward his position was. With his cheek pressed to the motorcycle seat, and his back arching forward to accommodate his legs. Bruce paid no mind, fingers steady at the redhead’s collar, the other braced over his forearm.

“Stroke yourself.” The words were so soft they could almost have been construed as a suggestion. But Jason knew better. They were sugar-coated, but no less demanding. Jason debated with himself, swallowing compulsively as he struggled to maintain his position. Bruce’s hand left his arm, drifting lower to rest above his thigh. Jason could feel the burning imprint of the man’s palm against his flesh. He felt like he was being branded.

After a moment’s hesitation, Jason took himself in hand, a shudder passing through him at the first touch.

The hand at his thigh tightened, and he felt the other’s breathing grow heavier. Jason inhaled deeply, a low sigh slipping past his lips as he pumped his fist. It was dry, more so than he normally enjoyed, but he didn’t stop. He squeezed himself at the base, his free hand curling over Bruce’s.

The man leaned forward, mouth hovering above his ear, not quite touching. Jason strained to meet those lips, his face sore from the imprints the seat was undoubtedly leaving on his flesh.

“Slowly, Robin.” Bruce’s voice was rough and deep, and it took all he had not to surge forward and lick those words off the other’s tongue. Jason shut his eyes and bit his lip, struggling to keep his pace slow and even.

“ _Batman_ \--” Jason whined, hips thrusting forward into the tight circle of his hand, his arm shaking from the control. He wanted to go faster-- needed to, feeling heat and arousal coil tightly in his stomach. It was agonizing and frustrating in all the wrong (right) ways.

“ _Slowly_ ,” Bruce said sharply, nails digging neat crescents into the skin of the younger man’s thigh. Jason bit back a groan and forced himself to slow his quickened pace. He panted heavily through his teeth, shuddering as he brushed his thumb over the head of his cock.

“Good, Robin.” Praise. Condescending, patronizing. Jason bristled, his head jerking back, his cheek lifting from the leather.

And in that moment, it wasn’t Bruce playing Batman. It _was_ Batman-- and he wasn’t pleased.

A heavy hand gripped him by the jaw, slapping his head back down against the seat. A grunt escaped him at the bright flash of pain and the hard punch of arousal that sailed through his gut.

It was a threat, a promise, an _order_ , and Jason was caught between obedience and rebellion.


End file.
